The Merry Wives of Downton
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: A story in which some of the women at Downton create havoc and the others have to put up with it. They want to put on a play. Multi-chapter, featuring the whole cast and probably multiple pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**This piece is not to be taken outstandingly seriously, because if you _do_ you will think I'm out of my tree. Probably AU, multi chapter, if you'd like. Inspired by a suggestion of the utmost genius from someone in the Dame Allan's drama department, and the brilliance of Penelope Wilton, who made me really want to write something with Mrs Crawley in it. **

**-Prologue-**

Isobel Crawley was sitting so still on the drawing room couch that at first Elsie completely failed to notice her. It must be nice to be calm enough, she briefly thought. She was very grateful that she did notice her though, otherwise she'd have probably dusted her along with the rest of the furnishings. Fortunately, the woman did not seem to notice her presence either. She jumped a little as Elsie bid her good morning.

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes," she replied, smiling over her shoulder at the housekeeper.

"Has something happened?" Elsie enquired, dusting the sideboard. Ten o'clock in the morning was dreadfully early to have someone pay a call, but given that Mrs Crawley was strictly speaking family she might well be called upon in an emergency. It was not, however, an emergency that Elsie had as yet come to hear of.

"You might well ask," was the reply, offered with rather a wry smile, "I received a note in this morning's post. Cousin Cora has had a splendid idea, apparently, and I was to come at once."

Heaven help us all, Elsie thought; in her humble opinion the year was amply full of Lady Grantham's splendid ideas after the garden party and flower show. It evidently showed in her expression; Mrs Crawley smiled slyly at the rather sceptical look on her face.

"I don't think it can be anything too serious," Mrs Crawley continued in a lightly amused tone, "I didn't see any smelling salt being ferried around when I came in so it's nothing critical."

Elsie raised her eyebrows a little at that. It was only Lady Violet who went mad on those, and if she did show up as well because of this "splendid idea", given that Mrs Crawley was here, she had the feeling that they would have to batten down the hatches, as Mrs Patmore would have it put.

"Sometimes," she continued, sounding supremely unperturbed by it, "I feel as if Cousin Violet is right and I really don't belong here."

The implication of course, Elsie thought, being that that is because _you_ have a modicum of sanity.

"I often think the same about myself, Mrs Crawley," she told her, with a barely disguised grin.

Mrs Crawley returned the smile before the door opened, and they were advanced upon by the exuberant remainder of the household.

**-Chapter 1-**

Elsie, unable to remain in the room without staring in disbelief or rolling her eyes more frequently than was polite, had taken to listening from the drawing room door, where her face was free to act as flippantly as it wished.

"You want to put on a play?" Lady Mary asked her mother for what had to be the third time. Normally, Elsie might have assumed that the girl had become hard of hearing, but she too could not quite comprehend what on earth Lady Grantham thought she was playing at.

"Why?"

"I've already told you, dear," she heard Lady Grantham's voice from the other side of the door, "I think it would bring the village, and the household, together. The servants could join it. "

"Yes," came Lady Violet's unmistakable tones, "Bringing them all together by the unanimous opinion that our putting on a play is a thoroughly ridiculous idea."

Well said, Elsie thought. She'd never thought she would agree with Lady Violet on any topic, but it seemed she had been wrong.

"I thought that was what the flower show was for," Lady Edith sounded bored rather than perturbed or astonished, "And the village fête, and the bring and buy sale..."

"But this would be different!" her Ladyship insisted, "And that's why it would be so effective."

Her voice had the distinctive quality of an enthusiastic child who was used to getting their own way and couldn't quite understand why they weren't this time.

"What kind of a play, Mama?" Lady Sybil asked.

There was no reply; apparently her Ladyship's fit of brilliance had not extended quite that far.

"Something from Shakespeare?" Mrs Crawley suggested helpfully.

"Rather predictable, isn't it?" Lady Violet asked.

No one paid attention to the Dowager, electing not to offend Mrs Crawley any more than was necessary of a Monday morning. Anyway, Elsie thought rather ruefully, in her experience what was predictable was very often the most manageable.

"A romantic comedy," Sybil suggested enthusiastically.

Typical, from what she had heard, Lady Sybil's life was enough of one of those without having to act in one too.

"A tragedy," Edith offered, with an air of melodrama.

"A history," Lady Mary completed the set.

"No, I think we should do a tragedy," her Ladyship took a decisive tone, then, sounding a little out of her depth- appealed to the others for assistance-, "Which one?"

"Romeo and Juliet," came Lady Edith's voice immediately.

"Gosh, no!" Elsie was grateful for Lady Sybil stepping in; from what she'd heard of that particular work, she wasn't sure just how much of that she could stand, "It has to be Macbeth!"

There was a murmur around the room.

"I should think," Lady Violet remarked- Elsie could almost see the disapproving look she threw at her youngest granddaughter-, "That we were a little more civilised than _that_."

But Sybil was not to be put off that easily.

"Oh, Granny," she pleaded, "It was a _Thane_ doing all of the murdering. It doesn't get much more civilised than that."

Lady Violet was apparently too thrown by the lunacy of the remark to respond audibly.

"So Macbeth, then," her Ladyship concluded.

"Forgive me, my Lady," Miss O'Brien's voice issued from behind the door- what on earth was _she _doing joining in the conversation? Elsie thought-, "Isn't that the one with the mad Scottish woman in it?"

Elsie had a horrible feeling that she knew where this was going.

"Yes it is, Miss O'Brien," Lady Edith replied.

"I see. Thank you, my Lady."

There was a pause for a moment.

"Why, Miss O'Brien, do you look so amused?" Lady Violet's voice asked.

Elsie could not quite credit the sheer nerve of the lady's maid, until she remembered that Miss O'Brien probably didn't know that she was hovering behind the door, listening to every word being said.

"Well," she began in a strained polite tone, "I was just thinking, my Lady, that Mrs Hughes would make a wonderful mad Scotswoman." 

Sarah O'Brien, Elsie thought, you don't know how right you are: I will _murder _you!

There was a moment of shocked realisation around the room.

"Goodness me," came Lady Grantham's voice, "Sybil dear, go and find Mrs Hughes at once and tell her we have a proposition to put to her!"

Elsie considered that she could run for it, but didn't; and was carted into the room as few seconds later by an enthusiastic Lady Sybil.

**Please tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**After two nights of not being able to write anything I have gone wild and written a truckload, or what feels like one anyway. I'm glad you liked the first chapter. When you get to the last part just how AU this story is should probably be remembered. And I'm also going to have to give massive credit to Shakespeare for the snippets of text I've nicked from Macbeth here. **

"A play?" Daisy looked both astonished and delighted by the very concept, "A play! Which part do you think I'll get to be?"

Miss O'Brien cast a mildly sarcastic eye over the excited child.

"Third dormouse," she concluded flatly.

"Dormouse?" came Mrs Patmore's voice from the far side of the kitchen, "I heard they were doing Macbeth not Wind in the flaming Willows! Though," she turned to Daisy, "She's probably right: don't go getting your hopes up about having something to do on the stage or anything. Old Hughsie's already gone and bagged the best for herself part by all accounts."

"Well," Anna felt obliged to correct her on that point, at least, "She's certainly ended up in that part. I doubt whether she actually wanted to."

Though she knew the futility of doing so, she cast a very pointed look in Miss O'Brien's direction. The lady's maid genuinely seemed not to notice, and only remarked:

"It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces, you have though none of 'em had ever heard an original idea before. I didn't have you down for an actress, Mrs P?" she addressed this latter remark to the cook, "Why do you even care if Hughsie gets to be her usual self, only on stage?"

Mrs Patmore took up the meat clever.

"I don't," she chopped at the joints on the board with particular venom, "I'll only thank you to remember that she's not the only one in this house to be feared."

At that moment, Anna could quite see her point. But Miss O'Brien grinned a little at the table before getting up from where she rested against the dresser.

"I'm going outside for a fag," she told them, "Bye bye, Dormouse."

Rather than looking frightened as she usually did, Daisy visibly glowered at the maid's retreating back. Anna pushed back a smile.

"You'd think Mrs Hughes would just tell them all to beggar off, wouldn't you?" Daisy remarked after a few moments of peeling potatoes in silence.

"I'll thank you to mind your language," Mrs Patmore told her, gesticulating a little too vehemently with her knife, "Just because Thomas gets away with talk like that, doesn't mean you can. And anyway, Mrs Hughes would never say that to 'er Ladyship. It probably hasn't even crossed her mind. And if it has she wouldn't dare to, because she'll know that if she did, they couldn't make the rest of us join in either. She has to set one of her precious examples. Yon lass, Gwen for example."

The kitchen seemed to swivel towards where Gwen was perched at the table with her typewriter.

"What are you up to?" Anna asked, peering over her shoulder.

Gwen had been so quiet up till then that she had scarcely been noticed.

"Her Ladyship asked me to type some copies of the script out, or Lady Sybil did anyway," she told them.

"How many?" Anna asked, observing the positive mountain of paper beside her.

Gwen's reply sounded suspiciously like "as many as possible". Mrs Patmore shook her head in something akin to disgust.

"I hope they're giving you the paper and ink," she remarked.

Gwen answered distractedly that they were; resuming typing with ferocious speed. The cook, Anna thought, was taking being beaten to the part by Mrs Hughes rather hard.

"Auditions are tomorrow after breakfast, Lady Mary said," she announced, loudly enough for Mrs Patmore to hear her, before leaving to change her cap for dinner.

…**...**

At first Elsie had thought that putting a play on was lunacy. She had since come to revise her definition of the term. It _was _lunacy, she now realised, that not only had she been roped into the lead female part in said play, there was also very little chance of her being able to get out of it _and_ she was being obliged to watch the others audition with the other ladies instead of getting her actual work done. As everyone seemed to be taking it for granted that she would play Lady Macbeth, she had been "invited" to watch. But, to be fair, the morning had not been without it's merits. Watching Mrs Patmore, Miss O'Brien and Daisy audition as a trio for the parts of the three murderers had certainly been one of them. She did not want to be uncharitable to Daisy, but she thought they might have stood more of a chance going for the three witches.

However, she almost fell off her chair when Charles Carson was admitted to the space that had been cleared in front of the table where she, Lady Grantham, Lady Violet, Mrs Crawley, Lady Mary and Lady Edith sat. And judging by the look on her face, so did Lady Grantham.

"Carson?" Elsie detected a hint of a splutter in her Ladyship's voice.

Her obvious surprise did not seem to help matters as far as Charles was concerned.

"Yes, my Lady?" he asked, rather tentatively, probably forgetting that he wasn't strictly present in his role as butler, and wondering if her Ladyship needed any more tea.

"Which role are you auditioning for, Mr Carson?" Mrs Crawley asked him kindly.

Charles shuffled a little, looking almost abashed.

"Macbeth, ma'am," he replied.

Of all the ridiculous, endearing but ridiculous, things he'd ever done- and Elsie, over the years, had been party to some the extremes- this had to come out pretty high. Mrs Crawley had evidently been struck dumb too by the situation before her. Only crisp tones from the other side of Lady Grantham saved them.

"Go on, Carson," Lady Violet encouraged him, supremely unconcerned by the attitudes of her colleagues.

From where she sat beside her, Elsie saw Lady Mary flash a small smile of encouragement at Charles, before he opened up the book and began to read.

" 'Is this a dagger I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still...' "

Was it just her, or did the lines have quite a pleasant hum to them when he spoke? Not that she was anywhere near recovered from the surprise of seeing him arrive for an audition, but he had a good voice. She had always thought as much.

" '...I see thee still, And on thy blade gouts of blood,

Which was not so before. There's no such thing:

It is the bloody business which informs

Thus to mine eyes."

He was certainly giving it some expression, she thought rather fondly. His expression was quite nicely animated. The ladies were impressively silent; Lady Edith was all but goggling at him.

"I go, and it is done: the bell invites me.

Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell

That summons thee to heaven or to hell."

When he was finished, there was a tremendous pause around the room.

"Carson," her Ladyship finally spoke, her voice faltering a little, "Have you ever done that before?"

For some reason, Charles' face coloured violently.

"No, my Lady," he muttered.

Elsie wondered that Lady Grantham should look so unnerved. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who felt the effect of Charles' powerful voice.

"Very good, Carson," Lady Violet looked toward the butler with approval, "We shall certainly give your great consideration."

Charles inclined his head towards the ladies as he left the room. Elsie watched his retreating form in something akin to wonderment, at just about everything that was happening to her today.

…...

"How many more to go, Mrs Hughes?" Lady Grantham called as Elsie peered round the door to admit the next applicant, "Who's the next one auditioning for?"

Elsie had to admit that she was truly surprised- though she ought to have known better- when she saw who was waiting in the corridor, not least because of their odd mode of dress.

"Not many," she replied, "It's another witch. It's..."

"Hello, Mama!"

Lady Sybil floated into the room behind Elsie, beaming rather triumphantly at her surprised relatives.

"Sybil! What on earth are you doing?" her mother exclaimed.

Taking up a rather dramatic stance in the centre of the make shift stage, Sybil appeared supremely unconcerned by her mother's perturbation.

"I should have thought that was obvious."

Elsie saw the corners of Mrs Crawley's mouth twitch, and had to beat back a smile herself.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Lady Violet eyed the outfit her granddaughter had assembled for herself suspiciously, as if she expected something to leap out from it.

It was true, Lady Sybil's attire seemed to have taken a turn for the Gothic today. She had blackened her face a little- with what Elsie didn't like to think-, let her hair fall wildly about her shoulders and had borrowed what looked very like mourning clothes made to fit someone of Mrs Patmore's build.

"I'm being 'in character'," she replied, with a pleasant disdainful twang in her voice.

"Sybil," her mother scolded, "You can't be _in _the play, darling, you said you would help me design the stage and set it up!"

"I can do that as well, mother, don't fuss," Sybil told her hastily, tired of all of these objections, "May I begin?"

"Were any of the rest of you planning to desert me?" her Ladyship asked the room at large, ignoring her youngest daughter and sounding mildly hysterical.

There was the briefest pause; then Mrs Crawley raised a tentative hand.

"Cousin Isobel!" Lady Violet's mock horror seemed to amuse her more than any of the rest of them, all waiting for Mrs Crawley to explain herself.

"I was wondering if I might play Lady Macbeth's gentlewoman. I was thinking of asking Dr Clarkson to play the doctor, I'm sure he'd love to."

…**...**

"So let me get this straight," Robert addressed an exhausted Cora, who was lying flat out on her bed, "You have cast our two head servants as a married couple in a play where they plot against and overthrow the king, in a very violent fashion I might add. Not only that, but you want me to play the king. Do you not think that this might not provoke unwanted mutiny among the servants?" he asked casually.

Cora raised an eyebrow at him.

"What? I'm sure mutiny is not in dear, sweet Carson's vocabulary?"

"It's not him I'm thinking of," Robert replied ruefully, "Did you see the look on Mrs Hughes' face? Did you even ask her if she wanted to play Lady Macbeth?"

"She's perfect for the part," Cora insisted wearily. Clearly, she hadn't asked, then, "That accent of hers. And I must admit, I'm frightened of her on occasions."

Not frightened enough, obviously, Robert considered saying.

"I've been thinking about her accent," he told her instead, "Will it not seem odd when she's cursing away in a broad Scottish accent and everyone else is reading lines in voices straight from the local countryside, or London society?"

"Not as odd as if we had Lady Macbeth cursing away in a voice straight from the local countryside," Cora assured him, "The lines sounded almost comical when dear O'Brien read them."

"What's she going to be?" Robert asked curiously, "You'd have thought that cursing and plotting was right up her street."

Cora looked moderately put out.

"Head witch," she informed him, "By an almost unanimous vote."

…**..**

Elsie shut the door of Charles' pantry soundly. Hearing the sound, he looked up from his desk. She turned to face him with her back against the door, peripherally listening to ensure that she had been right in thinking that everyone else had gone to bed.

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, Charles?" she asked, "Don't you think that us playing a married couple might give the game away a little bit?"

She wasn't angry, but over-wrought. And because he knew her so well, he understood as much.

"I thought you might say that," he admitted, looking dejected, "And I'm sorry, I truly wasn't going to, but Lady Violet asked me yesterday evening if I was going to audition and she seemed so hopeful; I didn't like to say no."

She almost rolled her eyes at him but stopped herself. One of the things that she did recognise in him after all these years was his dedication to the family and his wish to see them as happy as possible, even in silly details like this. Sometimes, though, he went a little too far.

"Well make sure you do say no when they find us out," she instructed him, "And ask you, "By the way, Carson, have you and Mrs Hughes been having an affair for the past God knows how many years?"

By now she was almost joking, and certainly smiling at the expression on his face as he watched her rant and rave.

"They won't find out," he told her flatly, returning his gaze to the paper on his desk, "Not because of a play at any rate. Just because we play a married couple, doesn't make us married, you know."

"I know, but it might set tongues wagging," she told him.

"Let them wag," he told her, sounding a little bored by the idea.

Crossing to stand behind him, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Don't you have enough work to do without taking on this ridiculous scheme?" she asked him seriously, "I know I certainly have."

He tilted his head sideways to look at her.

"I don't think I shall look at it as work," he told her, after a moments consideration, "I might even enjoy being terrorised by you a few more times a day."

She laughed and kissed him on the head.

"I shall hold you to that, you know," she informed him, "I'll make some tea."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

When Rosamund Painswick finally gained access to Downton Abbey at a quarter past one in the afternoon she found it in a state of what could only be called chaos. The housemaids, still in their morning dresses were running left, right and centre around the ground floor; all apparently in a terrific hurry to get somewhere. None of her relatives were- at first- to be found anywhere. When she did find her mother and sister-in-law it was in a large drawing room on the second floor that she had forgotten existed.

"Rosamond?" she was greeted in the usual brisk tone by her mother, "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Dear Mama. You surely can't have expected me to stay away when Cora wrote telling me that she was putting on a play."

By the look on her mama's face- she really couldn't hide her displeasure if she tried to- she had both expected and hoped that Rosamond would not turn up. However, Rosamund was not to be put off; she turned to Cora instead- who was standing with a clipboard in her hands looking baffled by the situation she found herself in.

"You know Cora, are you sure you can afford to put on a play with all of your _servants_ in it? Surely they won't be able to do any work at all?" she asked, "When I arrived the door was answered by the butler. Wearing a cloak, no less."

Cora only smiled a weary smile.

"Dear Carson. He says it helps him to get into character." 

"But what about the house?" Rosamond pressed on, "How will everything stay decently _clean_?"

"I'm sure Mrs Crawley will keep us on the right track as far as the house is concerned," her Mother interjected. Both Cora and Rosamund frowned at her in incomprehension, "Well, surely that would be well within the many talents and capabilities of a woman who can both act in a play, design and make the costumes and give the odd helpful critical direction to the rest of the cast!"

"That's why we rehearse in the afternoons," Cora informed her calmly, ignoring her mother-in-law and consulting her clipboard momentarily, "All essential chores are done before then. We started yesterday and it worked well enough. We had to allocate a specific time for it, otherwise I think either Carson or Mrs Hughes would have had a heart attack by now."

Cora had always had a very offhand attitude to doing things properly, Rosamund reflected.

"At least you can be sure of being able to eat," she remarked, but then was struck by a very unsavoury notion, "Unless your cook's in it as well?"

Cora nodded casually.

"Yes. She's First Murderer."

"She's rather too convincing for my liking," her mother grumbled, "Cora, shall we get started or we'll be here until dinnertime?"

"Yes," Cora agreed, "Rosamund, would you care to join us for this afternoon's rehearsals?"

Yes, she thought, she would. She was certain that they would prove to be... interesting, to say the least.

…**...**

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Edith!" Mary finally snapped, "Haven't you got any sense of rhythm at all?"

Normally, Sybil thought, their mother would have reprimanded Mary for such a sharp flash of temper, but she got the feeling that rather than Mary being alone in her irritation she had simply been the first to snap. Poor Edith just didn't seem to be able to grasp the idea of rhythm. She turned her head to see both her mother and grandmother in varying degrees of distress. Aunt Rosamund, however, was looking rather amused. This was turning out to be a very long afternoon. Sybil sighed.

"It doesn't matter, Edith," their mother told her half-heartedly, "You'll get the hang of it eventually."

"Well I hope she does soon," Sybil heard Mary mutter under her breath.

"Why don't we go and see Cousin Isobel and get our costumes seen to?" Sybil heard herself suggest, not attempting to disguise the note of pleading in her voice, "I think we could all do with a break from this."

"Good idea," Granny agreed, "There are thirteen lines in Act 1 Scene 1; and I think I must have heard them nearly forty times this afternoon."

Sybil cast a concerned eye over their mother. She was looking quite beside herself.

"I knew yesterday was too good to be true," she announced to the room at large, then turned to Aunt Rosamund to explain: "Yesterday we had a quick run-through of the scenes between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, to check that Carson and Mrs Hughes will be able to manage."

"I told you he'd be marvellous, Cora," Granny interjected from the sideboard where she had wandered to for the moment.

"They were wonderful," Mama continued, looking as if she still couldn't quite believe it, "When I get a moment I really must ask them if they've ever acted together before."

"From what I see of them they always act like an old married couple anyway," Edith remarked, obviously having recovered from her disgrace.

"No dear," their mother continued, "I know what you mean, but it was something more. It was extraordinary: they knew what the other was about to do before they did, if you see what I mean. Anyway," she suddenly returned to earth with a look of dejection, "It seems we've had no such luck today."

"Perhaps we should see Robert's scene next," Aunt Rosamund suggested.

"Yes," Granny agreed, returning to the table, "We haven't seen him yet, and I believe it's the next in the script."

Mama looked uneasy.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why?"

Granny raised her eyebrows in a way that was almost frightening.

"Because I haven't cast most of the parts in it yet."

Thankfully, it was at this point that Mary saw fit to lead her two sisters out of the drawing room.

"Aren't you going to see Cousin Isobel?" Edith asked when Sybil headed off in the wrong direction.

She shook her head.

"We can go later on. Mary, take Edith to the library and practise her lines with her. In the meantime I'm going to find O'Brien to make sure she has the smelling salts on hand for Granny."

…**...**

Elsie had never been in anything intentionally dramatic in her life before but now, on the second day of rehearsals, she found she was rather enjoying it. Perhaps it was because she was good at it: good at being aggressive and... well, Scottish, anyway. But one of the parts she liked the most was the atmosphere backstage. Having spent most of her working life trying to avoid "atmospheres" it was a surprise to find one that she really liked.

Of course, she used the term "backstage" quite loosely. They had in fact taken over the bachelors' corridor, the floor above the stage. With the help of Anna and Miss O'Brien she had hung up curtain partitions in the bedrooms to act as individual dressing cubicles. However, her cubicle was next to the one where Mrs Crawley had set up to make the costumes and rather than secluding herself, she found there was more space and better company to sit with her and help with the stitching.

"From what I've heard, they aren't doing as well today though," Mrs Crawley remarked, changing her thread, "Apparently Edith had poor Cora all but frantic."

"It's likely to be because no one can follow our Act 5 Scene 1," Elsie joked.

First thing that afternoon, both of them had taken Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess by surprise by producing a highly animated version of the sleep-walking scene. In the absence of Dr Clarkson, Mrs Crawley had taken it upon herself to put on an astonishingly low voice and read the Doctor's lines as well as the Gentlewoman's, earning herself some stern looks from Lady Violet.

Mrs Crawley smiled in response.

"Yes," she agreed, "Mrs O'Brien had a point. You are alarmingly good at being mad."

Elsie laughed out loud. All of this theatrical carrying on made her oddly happy.

There was a rustle at the curtain and Lady Sybil stuck her head into the scene.

"Hello, my Lady."

"Hello, Mrs Hughes. Have you seen Mr Carson anywhere? Mama wants me to tell him we're not doing anything more with him in until tomorrow."

"He's through in my cubicle," she indicated, "Pretending to learn his lines."

"Would you like any help with anything?" Sybil asked, looking around at the various jumbles of fabrics and papers with measurements on them.

"No thank you, dear," Mrs Crawley replied, "We're almost ready to finish. And I still can't find anything to make your faces as dirty as you managed to look last week. If I didn't know any better I'd say you paid Mrs Patmore for the privilege of sticking your face in the coal cellar or simply stuck your head up a chimney."

Judging by the look on her face, that assessment was not far from the truth. Trust Lady Sybil to go that little bit too far, Elsie thought.

"There's no one being fitted for a costume now, is there?" came a voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Come through, Charles," Elsie called in reply.

As the butler emerged, she caught a hint of a smile on Lady Sybil's face. Probably amused at the fact that they called each other by their first names, Elsie thought.

"Her Ladyship says you're finished for the day," she told him.

He looked nothing short of relieved.

"I think I can live with that," he replied.

"Yes," Lady Sybil interrupted, "But- I forgot to say- she wants to see the sleep-walking scene again. I think she thinks it'll give her hope."

Mrs Crawley put down her needle with a feigned sigh.

"It seems we are simply too popular today, Mrs Hughes."

Elsie grinned again.

"Just don't do that voice again," she warned her, reaching for her nightgown to put on on top of her dress, "Or I think the Dowager Countess will hurl a vase at you."

They all laughed at the amusing mental image as they shifted toward the corridor.

"You'll have to sort Mrs Hughes' costumes out tomorrow," she heard Charles inform Mrs Crawley quite seriously as the four of them proceeded down the corridor, "You can't have her wandering around the house in her own nightdress. It's not seemly."

And with that he departed for the servants' stairs.

It took Elsie a moment to notice that both Mrs Crawley and Lady Sybil were watching her with expressions of mingled confusion and amusement.

"What?" she asked, feeling mildly uncomfortable.

They exchanged a glance.

Then Sybil spoke, with a worryingly mischievous glint in her eye.

"How did he know that it _was _your nightdress, Mrs Hughes?"

**Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Apart from the first section, this chapter could have been entitled "Lost"- if I was in the habit of naming chapters, which I'm not. Isobel's apparent hyper-activity in the first section is based loosely on what happened on Tuesday- when my drama teacher and I had to dispose of a helium tank safely. **

"Now, gentlemen," Mrs Crawley had to raise her voice in order to be heard above the four rather spirited young men who had just arrived in her front hall. Luckily- standing on the second stair- she had the advantage of height, "I know you haven't seen each other in a while, but could you possibly settle down a moment."

Cora- in another master-stroke- attempting to cast all of the roles in her play, had invited three of Matthew's friends to take on the many extra minor roles. Due to the occupation of the bachelors' corridor as dressing rooms, this meant that Isobel had found herself with a few lodgers for the next fortnight or so.

"Sorry, Mrs C," apologised James, the oldest of Matthew's visiting friends- they had studied together at the university-, "Would you like us to go through?"

Isobel debated with herself for a moment on the merits of sending them through into the sitting room, but decided she would like to keep her new vantage point.

"No," she replied, "You'll all have to be off to the big house soon, they'll be sending the driver round any minute, I expect. I just wanted to say hello first."

There was a general- and quite raucous- chorusing of hellos from the assembled young men. She liked Matthew's friends from Manchester well enough, often their antics cheered her up no end, but good heavens they could be loud when they wanted to. That said, that was probably due to their not having seen each other for a while and they were all nice boys; and- save for the limited number of rooms at her disposal- she was more than happy to have them to stay with them while they participated in Cora's play.

"Now, I imagine Matthew's filled you in on all of the details. You're all playing various Lords and so forth in this production we're putting on, and I expect you all to be thoroughly exhausted when you come back here in the evenings, is that clear?" she smiled benevolently down on them.

"Ma'am?" Molesley's voice came from beside the door, "Ma'am, Branson's here with the motorcar."

"Excellent," she descended the few stairs quickly, cutting through the crowd small crowd, who she noticed were gazing at her in something like admiration, "Molesley would you mind taking the cases upstairs?" she indicated to the sea of luggage surrounding them, "You'd all better be off," she addressed Matthew and his friends, "I'll be round later, I've still got some costumes to finish off. Lead on, Macduff!" she could not quite resist adding as her son passed her and kissed her on the cheek as he went out the front door towards the waiting car.

"Mother," he reprimanded, turning back as his friends followed him, all nodding cheerfully to Isobel, "You know perfectly well that Bates is playing Macduff."

"I know, I know!" she replied, following them down the steps, "You're Malcolm, you're the king at the end, you don't need to remind me! Have a good time boys, but don't as much as talk to any of the housemaids unless you absolutely have to," she smiled rather wryly, "Or the housekeeper will have your guts for garters, guests or not."

They all roared with laughter as Branson got out of the car and held the door open.

"Is this housekeeper an old battle axe?" George asked Matthew, "We had one like that at my Grandfather's old place. Even _he _was frightened of her."

"She's playing Lady Macbeth," Matthew replied, smiling at their expressions, "Good afternoon, Branson."

"Good afternoon," the chauffeur replied as Matthew got in the car, turning to Mrs Crawley, "Ma'am, will you be wanting me to come and fetch you later on?"

"I shouldn't think so, Branson, I'll walk," she replied, "They'll be wanting you at the rehearsals, I expect. You are still playing the porter, aren't you?"

"That's right, ma'am."

He closed the door of the car, smiling, and made to get into the driving seat.

"Excellent," Isobel called back, "I promise you, your costume will be ready by tomorrow morning." 

She saw Branson wave his approval as the car pulled away. Cheerfully, she waved back to the four spirited young men in the back of the car, and then exhaled deeply. The next few days promised to be even more tiring than the last ones had been.

…**...**

Gwen, not actually having a part on stage or in the play apart from around-the-clock typist, had now apparently been taken on as a runner. And running she was: left, right and centre, on behalf of the cast, the directors, anyone who happened to be passing through the house. Beginning to feel flustered, she slowed her pace as she approached a confused-looking Lady Sybil, who was heading the other way down the bachelors' corridor.

"Gwen, what on earth's the matter?" Lady Sybil asked as Gwen took the opportunity to catch her breath, having just mounted two flights of stairs, "You aren't being pursued by one of those excellent young men Edith had her eye on earlier, are you?"

"I'm looking..." she straightened up, "For Mrs Hughes' shoes."

"Mrs Hughes' shoes?" Lady Sybil repeated, then frowned a little, evidently detecting the ring that the words had, and feeling a little ridiculous, "Does she have to wear a particular pair to sleepwalk in?"

Gwen could tell that Lady Sybil was wondering if the housekeeper was following the butler's example, and had to wear a specific pair of shoes to get in character.

"No," she shook her head fervently- it was common knowledge in the servants' hall that Mrs Hughes found Mr Carson's insistence on wearing his cape rather frivolous- "Only her other comfortable ones are too loud on the floor and no one can hear a word she says if she walks and talks at the same time."

She was not at all surprised when Lady Sybil rolled her eyes.

"That'll be Granny picking faults, I suppose," she remarked, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. By the look of her, Gwen thought, she was feeling the strain of this production as much as any of them, though she was bearing it cheerfully. "Gwen," she looked as if she'd been suddenly struck by a thought, "You haven't asked Carson where Mrs Hughes' shoes are, have you?"

"No," she replied, then, looking at the expression on Lady Sybil's face, thought she might dare to question her employer. "Why, my Lady?"

She received quite a sly smile in answer.

"Let's just say that Mrs Crawley and I have rather a substantial theory developing about those two," Lady Sybil informed her.

That did not surprise Gwen all that much; she doubted very much that it was a theory she hadn't already heard from Miss O'Brien or Mrs Patmore. However, Lady Sybil was still looking thoughtful.

"Gwen, I would like you to check Mr Carson's pantry for Mrs Hughes' shoes. He won't be in there when you do," she continued, "I think he could do with practising his first scene. Come and find me when you have found them."

And with that, Lady Sybil swept off back towards the rehearsals, no doubt to rearrange them completely to conform with her plans to catch the butler and housekeeper out.

…**...**

"All I'm saying, Charles, is that it doesn't look good!"

"What?" he asked, turning away from his search for his script to survey Elsie; who had parked herself beside the table, arms folded across her chest and flatly refusing to help- at least until he responded to her, "That your shoes happened to be found in my pantry this afternoon? It's hardly the most scandalous revelation to be made in recent years. Now, if I can only find this confounded script..."

She hadn't yet told him about Lady Sybil and Mrs Crawley's reaction to him recognising her nightdress.

"Don't you care if we get found out, Charles?" she asked, raising her voice a little- though rather foolishly he thought; had anyone else been in the dressing room with them, it would have only served to further jeopardise their secrecy.

"Quite frankly, no," he replied, raising his voice to match hers; knowing that was probably the best way to get her to desist, at least in terms of volume, anyway.

And he was right.

"Has it occurred to you," she asked in a much more regulated tone, "That if we were to be found out, his Lordship would be well within his rights to sack us there and then?"

He straightened up, frowning. He knew her better than to think this might just be some clever strategy that she thought he might respond to, and looking at her face she seemed serious enough. And for the first time that day, without it being part of some dramatic exercise or other, he reached out and touched her; resting a hand on her shoulder first and then pulling her into his arms and hugging her. He felt her exhale in something like relief, and felt a pang for the strain she must be under almost constantly at the moment.

"Charles?" she began into his waistcoat, sounding tentative, "I'm starting to think you might have been right... all those years ago."

He imagined he probably had been, but hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.

"When?" he asked.

"When you suggested we get... married."

That brought the tinniest smile to his face. That certainly _was _a long time ago.

"Are you proposing to me, Elsie?" he asked, letting go of his tight hold on her so that he could look at her.

"Don't joke about it, Charles," she told him, detecting his flippancy.

"Sorry," he drew her back in to hold her. He sensed just a modicum of reluctance, but she did not protest. He lowered his lips momentarily into her hair to placate her.

"Elsie," he began again after a while, "What did you say to me on the one occasion I asked you to marry me?"

"I can't remember," he heard her sniff.

"I think you can," he told her softly, "Only you don't want to. I remember it word for word. You said that we didn't need a piece of paper to keep us together, and rightly so. For a woman who can say such ridiculous things sometimes, I think you got that spot on."

They were quiet for a moment. He sensed the reluctance in her had gone.

"And if his Lordship were to find out, and sack us," he tried to make the notion sound more ridiculous than it really was, "I don't think I'd mind. Because he'd sack us both together."

He felt her arms tighten around his middle. It felt like a long time that they stayed like that.

"And," he added as they finally let each other go, and he resumed digging under the debris on her dressing room table in his search for his script, "Do you know what I think we'd do if we did have a piece of paper to make us official? I truly think that we'd lose it, given the present stat of this dressing room!"

She slapped him playfully on the top of the head with her copy of _Macbeth. _

"Ouch!" he exclaimed- she had borrowed Lady Mary's hardback copy.

"Are you on for a session of learning lines after dinner?" she asked him.

Oh good, she was back to nagging him about learning his lines. They were normal again.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**As suggested a little while ago, something of a Carson/Hughes interlude during a midnight rehearsal. If you are not of the Carson/Hughes persuasion, do yourself a favour and just skip to the next chapter. **

"Just read it again," he implored her, "Give it another go."

He was not at all surprised at the look he received in return, in fact he was expecting it. It must be- he consulted the clock- yes, it was well past midnight, and they had not left his pantry; desperately, desperately trying to get Act 1 scene 7 right. They were dressed in a curious mixture of their nightclothes and their uniforms, empty tea cups lying on most flat surfaces. And both, it was fair to say, were getting to be properly exhausted by this point.

"Why did it have to be this scene?" she asked. He got the impression she was on the verge of stamping her foot, and had to repress a small smile.

"Because this is the one that sticks out like a sore thumb," he told her flatly, even though he was aware that the question was probably meant to be rhetorical, "Because it's the only one we can't do very well."

Truthfully, she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

"Why, Charles?" she asked, looking quite helpless, "I don't know what I'm doing wrong! You're doing everything right. And I know all of my lines, I'm just," she sank into the chair at his desk, "Not getting it."

He let out a sigh, rubbing his eyes for a second and then sitting down on the settee, picking up the script as if to reconsider it.

"Just remember what her Ladyship said," he told her calmly, "Give it more of an edge."

"Yes," she replied, looking as if she was givng the idea some thought, "I'm still not quite sure what she meant by that."

When he did not reply, she looked towards him, making it clear that their director's obscure request needed some elaboration.

"Am I just being incredibly stupid?" she wanted to know, when such elaboration did not arrive, "Please, Charles, tell me what I'm not getting."

He sighed once more. Well, he thought, if there was anyone who was suitable to tell her this, it was definitely him.

"The thing is," he began after another pause, "You're trying to play this far too... politely!"

She looked indignant.

"I'm shouting my head off at you! Lord only knows how I've got any voice left at all."

He shook his head.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he told her flatly, "Think about it. We're playing a married couple. What she's trying to do is use her power over him to get her own way. What kind of power do you think is going to work best in this case? On her husband?"

Then it clicked. He had to smile a little at the expression on her face, the dawning comprehension and utter shock.

"Charles," she began, looking aghast, "Her Ladyship can't possibly expect me to go about seducing you on stage!"

"No," he was laughing between words now, "She just wants an under-lying element of it, only I don't think she could bring herself to say it to your face. That's what she meant by "an edge"."

"It's not funny," she told him bluntly.

"Oh come on," he was still laughing, "It's not exactly a tactic you haven't ever employed before, is it?"

She looked at him very sternly over her script.

"I have never used my supposed seductive powers to try and persuade you to kill someone," she pointed out.

But, he guessed, she was coming round to see the funny side of this too.

"Come on," he told her, "Now you've had your eyes opened to her Ladyship's unscrupulous intentions with this scene, give it another go."

He was right; he saw a little smile ghost across her face as she stood up. He picked his own script back up and stood before her in the centre of the room. Unless he was very much mistaken she had a funny look in her eye; he got the feeling that this time she might just get the hang of it.


	6. Chapter 6

"**Stage Fright"**

With one week to go until the performance, it probably wasn't a good thing that most of the cast, not to mention the various members of the family who had taken on the role of directors, were all exhausted. And, as if it were a symptom of exhaustion, an increasing number of them were- as the fittings were finished and all that remained to do was numerous alterations- taking refuge in Mrs Crawley's costume-making cubicle on the bachelors' corridor; probably, Elsie reflected, because it was the single place they were most unlikely to be caught lounging about by Lady Violet. The effect of this was that there was now quite a constant buzz of- if not lively- friendly chatter in there. All three of Lord Grantham's daughters had now stationed themselves there, as well as Gwen and Branson, the latter of whom were perched in a corner playing snap.

"Could you pass me the pin cushion please, Mrs Hughes?" Mrs Crawley requested from the floor, where she was taking up the hem of Lady Sybil's witch costume, "I would get it myself, but I think it would probably take me a good half an hour to get up."

Elsie smiled- she knew that feeling- and handed her the pin-cushion.

"Thank you."

"You do look rather worn out, Mrs C," Lady Sybil remarked.

Having previously addressed her cousin as "Cousin Isobel" it might have seemed odd that Sybil had suddenly chosen to call her relative something that was both more and less formal. However, Elsie had heard one of young Mr Crawley's friends address his hostess thus, and it seemed that to do so had become quite the height of fashion among the young at Downton.

"I suppose I do, rather," Mrs Crawley conceded, yawning for good measure, "I put it down to stage fright."

Sybil looked confused.

"Stage fright from making the costumes?" she asked.

"Haven't you heard, Sybil?" Lady Mary spoke from the window sill, with something of an ill-disguised grin on her face, "It was all go at Crawley House last night."

"Oh?" That had Sybil interested.

"Yes," Mrs Crawley spoke in an off-hand tone that Elsie suspected stemmed from weariness, "The young men decided it would be best if they had a tennis match in the garden after dinner. They'd all had some wine so Molesley and I were called upon to be umpires. We didn't stop until about ten, when we couldn't see the ball and I was worried we'd break a window or someone's nose. Ahh," she sighed, finishing off her stitching, "What it is to be young."

By this point, most of the people were in something like hysterics. Elsie wondered how many of them were like her in wondering- from Mrs Crawley's use of "we"- if she hadn't played a far more active role in this tennis match than she was letting on.

"How did you know, Mary?" Lady Edith asked, sounding considerably less amused than the rest of them, "You weren't there were you?" 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sybil told her, "Mary was with us all of yesterday evening."

Lady Mary was looking uncomfortable for some reason, glowing a little against the black of her costume.

"One of Matthew's friends told me," she admitted, aware that most of the room was looking in her direction, "Christopher, I think his name is."

Something told Elsie that Lady Mary knew for certain what the young man's name was.

"You're getting to know him rather well, aren't you?" Edith asked.

"I've known him for a week!" Mary snapped in reply.

Edith had her mouth open, ready to retort- and by the look on her face with something quite nasty- but Sybil came to the rescue.

"Come on," she told them, not trying to disguise the way she well nigh shoved Edith towards the door, "Let's go an see if Mama will let us get that big cooking pot from Mrs Patmore so we can use it as a cauldron."

There was a sense of relief when all three of them had departed. Mrs Crawley was looking even more worn out than she had before and sank into the chair beside Elsie.

"Is it something about the building do you think?" she asked looking a little beside herself, though inexplicably amused, "The architecture? That drives girls from this place to go after young men who stay in my house?"

Elsie laughed loudly at that.

"Poor Edith," she continued, "It must be hard on her, being the middle of three children."

"Give her her due," Elsie remarked fairly, "She does seem to jump down Lady Mary's throat every time she as much as looks at someone."

She glanced momentarily towards the corner; Gwen and Mr Branson seemed distracted enough by their game.

"I thought Lady Mary was... well, that she had an understanding with Matthew?" she asked.

Mrs Crawley smiled a little.

"You would have thought that I, being his mother, would know, wouldn't you?" she asked, "But I'm not sure if they even know themselves. I'm not too worried, though," she smiled a little, "They'll sort themselves out eventually."

They were quiet for a moment.

"What it is to be young," Elsie repeated what Mrs Crawley had said not all that long ago, not without a little amusement.

"Quite," her companion agreed.

"SNAP!"

They near enough jumped out of their skins at a particularly exuberant end to a round of the game being played in the corner.

"Mr Branson!" Elsie snapped back into housekeeping mode, "Kindly moderate your tones!"

…**...**

All bedlam had broken loose below stairs.

"What the devil's going on down here?" Mrs Patmore wanted to know, negotiating her way around the kitchen table amid loud sobs.

Reaching the end of the table she found Miss O'Brien standing with her hands perched on her hips, surveying the sight before her- William hugging what looked like a distraught Daisy- with great distaste. Mrs Patmore let out an almighty sigh.

"Heavens, what's the fool girl up to now?" she enquired of Miss O'Brien.

"She's gone and got bloody stage fright, hasn't she?" Miss O'Brien replied, gesticulating irritably.

William cast a reproachful glance at them over the top of Daisy's trembling head. Enough was enough, Mrs Patmore decided; she wasn't about to be reproached in her own kitchen!

"Daisy!" she declared loudly, over the the racket the girl was still making, "Stop that noise and listen to me! We haven't got time for you to get stage fright. This blooming play's on in one week, and we can't afford for you to go losing you head left, right and centre!"

The sobs did not desist, though they lessened in volume.

"Flaming 'eck!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes at Miss O'Brien, "I only came down here to find that big pot they want for their cauldron!"

"Daisy," Miss O'Brien had evidently decided that she would have a go at getting her to shut up, "I'm sorry I said you should have been the dormouse. You'll be great as Second Murderer."

That brought a halt to Daisy's hysterics, maybe due to shock. At any rate she looked up from where her face had been buried in William's waistcoat. She blinked at Miss O'Brien, looking confused.

"Really?" she asked, probably unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Yeah," O'Brien looked uncomfortable, "At any rate, you get to murder that bloody fool Thomas, which we'll all thank you for."

Mrs Patmore observed the flicker of a smile on William's face. Daisy sniffed heartily.

"So no more of that," Miss O'Brien instructed, as the "fool" stuck his head around the door.

"Oi, Sarah, her greatness wants you upstairs for the witch scene. And she wants Mrs P to bring her cauldron with her."

…**...**

Elsie should have known that doubts would catch up with her eventually. What was she doing, trying to be in a play? She must have a screw loose! She was going to make an absolute fool of herself in front of all of her colleagues, her employers, and anyone from the village who cared to come and watch. She must have been insane to let them talk her into this. And, worst of all, she was going to let Charles down very badly indeed. Dear, wonderful Charles who was so brilliant as Macbeth, was going to be made to look stupid by her tottering about the stage like some silly halfwit. She had been having doubts ever since her initial disaster with Act 1 Scene 7, but it hit her one night as she was taking the finished witches' hats round to the girls' rooms: this was going to be a complete disaster.

She knocked on the door of Lady Sybil's room, not expecting there to be a reply- she would probably still be at dinner. However, a call of admittance came. She let herself in quietly, hoping this would be a quick conversation with a swift escape.

"I'm just bringing your hat for the dress rehearsal, my Lady," she told her, placing it on the bed.

Anna was there too, taking Lady Sybil's hair down.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs Hughes. I was just practising Anna's lines with her."

Anna smiled, looking a little abashed. Elsie had almost forgotten that she was in the play at all, but then Lady Macduff was only in one scene. Lucky thing, she thought bitterly. She did not notice Lady Sybil watching her closely in the mirror of her dressing table.

"Are you quite alright, Mrs Hughes?" she asked, "You do look dreadfully pale. Is anything the matter?"

Elsie would have tried to protest that she was fine, but Anna chose that moment to turn around too. Confronted by two pairs of eyes, Elsie concluded that lying would probably be utterly pointless.

And then she did what she knew for a fact she had not done in twenty years of service. She completely broke down in the presence of one of her employers.

Fortunately, however, it seemed that she chose the right employer to break down in front of. Had it been anyone else, except perhaps Mrs Crawley, she knew she would have scarpered but now she just stood stock still in the middle of Lady Sybil's bedroom, crying like a baby.

"Mrs Hughes?" by the sound of Anna's voice, the girl could not quite believe what she was seeing, "Mrs Hughes, what's the matter?"

She felt an arm around her waist and did not fight it off, though she was unaccustomed to such affectionate gestures from any of the housemaids. Except, it was coming from the wrong side to be Anna's arm. Looking tentatively, she saw it was Lady Sybil, wearing her nightdress with her hair all over the place who was hugging her.

"Come on," she heard her tell Anna gently, "Let's take her downstairs and find Mr Carson. He'll know what to do."

Elsie guessed that this latter statement caused Anna some disbelief; when it came to displays of emotion below stairs Charles was often the first to go running to his pantry until it was all over.

"He'll know what to do," Sybil repeated firmly, leading them towards the door, apparently not caring that she was in her nightdress, "Come on, Mrs Hughes."

Between them, Elsie let the two guide her down the servants' stairs and towards Charles pantry. They came across him, however, in the corridor, obviously heading towards the same place as they were. Through bleary vision, Elsie saw him give a look of confusion at the odd group they made. Lady Sybil let go of her and Elsie allowed Charles to do what she'd never let him before; hold her in front of other people.

**Please review if you have the time!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Well, what was supposed to be a little drabble of bridging-chapter-the-gap-between-chapters chapter, because I felt lazy not writing anything tonight, somehow morphed into nearly 1500 words. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for all of the lovely reviews so far. Also, if anyone could drop me a line and explain how to work livejournal I would be very very grateful.**

"You're sure she was alright?" Mrs Crawley asked her the next morning, her expression the height of concern. In the final week before the performance it had seemed appropriate to Cora to extent the rehearsals into the morning as well, hence the fact that Isobel- with her four young gentleman in tow, much to Edith's relief- was perched at the breakfast table, being filled in by Sybil on the events of the previous night.

Sybil nodded.

"I think so," she replied, reaching for the coffee pot, "You needn't worry," she threw her cousin a flippant glance, "You won't have to alter the Lady Macbeth outfit."

Mrs Crawley- thankfully having been bestowed with a sense of humour- seemed to realise Sybil was joking, rather than trying to imply that she was rather heartless.

"Thank the Lord for that!" she joined in, "It was a nightmare to make, never mind having to fit it to someone else!" She took a sip of her coffee. "You know, your grandmother would scold me terribly for saying this, but I've grown terribly fond of Mrs Hughes since we've been doing this production."

"I know," oddly enough, Sybil knew exactly what she meant, "I did feel so dreadful yesterday. I mean, we never really asked if she wanted to do it, did we? We just assumed that because she was so good... well, that she'd realise she was."

Isobel lowered her voice a touch, leaning a little towards Sybil.

"And you took her straight to Mr Carson?" she asked the question she'd been secretly burning to ask since the conversation began, "And he knew what to do?"

Sybil nodded impressively, only not too impressively as the butler was standing- as usual- by the sideboard and she did not want to draw his attention unnecessarily to their discussion. She threw a hasty glance in his direction before continuing.

"We were right," her tone was also lowered, "There's absolutely no way that we could have been wrong. He put his arms around her," there was an air of awe in her tone- silly, romantic child, Isobel thought- "Right there in the middle of the corridor, in front of me and Anna! And it calmed her right down. Only, Cousin Isobel," she tipped her head to the side, hoping this wouldn't come across as being too hypocritical, "Let's not gossip about them."

Evidently, she did not quite manage this latter effect.

"As much as I'm ashamed to say it; what on earth do you think we're doing right this minute?"

"What are you two whispering about?" Edith called across the breakfast table amid her gaggle of "admirers"- evidently it was having the effect of making her quite bumptious-, "You're been positively furtive over there."

"We're talking about which corsets will go best with the costumes," Isobel informed her without flinching- possibly without thinking either. Sybil nearly inhaled some of her coffee through her nose and spluttered a little. "We didn't think the young men ought to be able to hear us. So we were furtive."

With Edith nicely embarrassed out of posing any further questions, Isobel turned back to Sybil, who was wiping her mouth on a napkin.

"You're going to have to explain that one to me, Sybil," she told her plainly, picking herself some more toast, "You've spent the best part of a fortnight fashioning elaborate theories about them, and now you scarcely want to mention their names."

"I know," Sybil conceded reluctantly, "But I realise now, now I've seen what they're like with each other, we should leave them alone. There's something special about them. It's hard to explain," she admitted, picking up the newspaper that her father had discarded when he left the table.

Fortunately for her she was saved from having to explain it by the arrival of Mary.

"Mama wants you all ready in ten minutes," she informed them, peering around the door frame, "We're starting with Act 5. I'm sure she wants to prove that we could perform this infernal play backwards before we even get to the dress rehearsal."

"What are you wearing?" Edith asked, her voice a little haughty.

However, she hadn't been alone in noticing that Mary seemed determined not to enter the room while conducting this conversation: as her eldest sister shuffled around behind the door frame Sybil was truck by an idea.

"Let's see you in your costume," she instructed, turning around properly in her chair.

Isobel, both eager and anxious to see one of her masterpieces in action, practically threw her toast down and wheeled round to face the door. There was an intake of breath- which Sybil was pretty convinced came from mainly from Matthew- when Mary emerged in her black dress, looking wonderful.

"I was only testing it for length," she insisted, explaining why she came to be dressed as a witch at breakfast time, "And, on the day, I'll have my face all blackened and my hair at loose ends; you'll hardly be able to recognise me." 

Sybil noticed that her sister seemed to be addressing most of this to Matthew, and smiled at her empty plate.

"You look absolutely marvellous, my dear," Isobel told her, "Though of course I would say that. Have you had any breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you," Mary replied, turning to go, "I had some toast when I got up. Mama will be expecting you all," she reminded them, as she left.

Sybil noticed that all of the young men were looking rather swept away: what with corsets supposedly being discussed and elegant sisters floating around before they'd even finished their breakfast. One by one, however, they seemed to get up and hazily set about arranging themselves for the day. Edith, rather predictably, followed.

"Anyway," both Sybil and Isobel turned back around to hastily finish off their breakfasts, "Did I tell you?- Mr Branson has had the most splendid idea."

A likely tale, Isobel thought. The last splendid idea that had been had by someone in this house had so far- amongst other things- had Carson running around in a cloak all day, had turned her house into some kind of boarding house, very nearly given Mrs Hughes a nervous breakdown and almost caused Violet to strangle her only daughter.

"Mr Branson," she reminded her, "Has many ideas, most of which are highly radical and while I'm sympathetic to _some_ of them," she was keen to stress the quantity in this case, "I'm not altogether sure that this is the week to try to put them into practice."

Sybil shook her head at her cousin's tendency to jump to drastic conclusions.

"Not that kind of idea," she told her, "No. He thought it might be... nice if after the performance we all go rowing in the boats on the village pond."

Isobel looked at her for a moment.

"Oh, very well..." Sybil snapped a little, "He thought it would be terrific fun! But it would! At least that's what I think," she added a little defensively, draining her cup of coffee.

"Can you honestly see you grandmother, or your mother for that matter, or your aunt getting into the village rowing boats?" Isobel asked, a little amused by the idea.

"Granny insists that she's a good sailor," Sybil reminded her with her eyebrows raised a little.

"Yes, and I'm never quite sure what she means by that," Isobel admitted, "But I'm sure that's not the point. Can you really see her letting us all go wild at a play that Cora insists the whole village will surely attend?" 

Sybil spied the particular turn of phrase her cousin used there.

"You say "us"?" she remarked as they left the dining room and headed towards the bachelors' corridor.

Isobel laughed.

"My dear, at present I am living under the same roof as four young men, plus Molesley, all of whom seem to have an intense liking for "going wild" so to speak. I think getting into a boat and rowing it around the village pond is well within my capabilities."

Goodness, you are _very _like Granny at times, Sybil wanted to say. She raised an eyebrow.

"Even Molesley?" she asked curiously.

"Oh yes," Isobel informed her stoutly, "Even Molesley."

"Well I know one thing for sure," Sybil declared s they reached the bachelors' corridor, "If anyone ever deserved the chance to go wild, it'll be the lot of us when we've finished this!"

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Mrs Hughes' characterisation of Lady Macbeth is loosely based on Phyllis Logan's in the BBC audiobook. I thought that would be best as, to all intents and purposes, she _is_ Mrs Hughes.**

"**The Performance"**

"Good gracious me," Sybil whispered, awe-struck, as she peered through the curtains, "There are a lot of people out there!"

Mrs Crawley, standing beside her, nodded.

"Most of the village, your Mother said."

"I know for a fact that Evelyn Napier does not live in the village!" Sybil replied, her face still glued to the gap between the curtains, "Edith? Come here. Is that Anthony Strallan out there?"

There was a small yelp from the other side of the backstage area, and though it was quite dark, Isobel was able to discern a flash of shiny black fabric diving towards the curtain to have a look for herself.

"Heavens, you three, keep quiet! They can hear everything that goes on back here, you know."

Downton Abbey's ballroom had temporarily been converted into a theatre; a stage a had been set up in the area usually occupied by the orchestra, and the essentials for the backstage area had been transferred from the bachelors' corridor to the rooms usually set aside for coats and instrument cases behind it. As the crowd were making quite a lot of excited chatter as they took their places, Isobel doubted whether they could really be heard, but thought it best to do as Cora said anyway.

"Sorry, Mama," Sybil apologised, as the three of them came away from the curtain, back to the main backstage area where the rest of the cast were assembled.

"Mama, what is Anthony Strallan doing here?" Edith hissed.

"Your father took the liberty of inviting almost everyone we know," Cora replied, "And most of them accepted."

The level of apprehension seemed to triple. Not only were they performing to the population of Downton Village, but now, it transpired, to half of London society.

"Where is my mother?" Lord Grantham was asking, oblivious to the tension that was now palpable to everyone else, "And where's Rosamund for that matter? And where's my crown gone?"

"Here, my Lord."

Evidently, Mr Bates was never quite off duty as a valet, and brought forth the crown that Robert was going to wear as King Duncan.

"Granny and Aunt Rosamund are in the front row," Sybil supplied, "I saw when I was looking through the curtains," she added by way of explanation.

"Have they saved me a seat?" Cora wanted to know.

There was a momentary pause while Sybil went back to check.

"Yes."

"Right," Cora began, addressing the group at large, but in a hushed tone, "I just wanted to say good luck before you go on."

There were several hissed corrections to that statement.

"What?" replied Cora, confused, "What on earth have I said?"

"My Lady, it's bad luck to wish us luck before the performance," Carson supplied, "You're supposed to tell us to "break a leg"."

"Indeed? Well, break a leg then, everyone. Now," she continued, back in full flow, "I know quite a few of you thought it was madness to be doing this, but I must say I think you've all done splendidly. Thank heavens Sybil suggested we do Macbeth-..."

"No, Mama!" Sybil wailed, "You're supposed to call it "The Scottish Play" when you're in a theatre! Are you trying to curse us all?"

"No!" Cora insisted, rather helplessly, turning to Sybil, "You could have told me before now, dear!"

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by William's call of:

"Curtain up in three minutes. Three witches ready for Act 1 Scene 1!"

"Oh, graces alive!" Cora exclaimed, "I'd better get to my seat. I know you'll all do splendidly!"

As they were standing in a line, she kissed her three daughters each on their forehead before hastily departing to join Lady Violet, Lady Rosamund and Gwen in the front row. There was an edgy silence backstage for a few moments after she'd gone.

"How many times did she just curse us?" Thomas asked casually.

"Twice," Anna supplied in a grim tone.

"I thought so," he replied, looking blank, "Oh well," he continued "My character is dead by Act 3 anyway."

They were silent again. Mrs Hughes, in the corner, looked white as a sheet. Isobel threw a half-hearted smile at her.

"One minute," came William's voice again, "Places, everyone!"

"Come on," Sybil nudged Mary forward, "We've got to be on when the curtain goes up. Let's get on with it."

…**...**

When her Ladyship returned from backstage and took her seat, Gwen thought she looked mildly harassed.

"Everything alright backstage?" Lady Violet lent across Lady Rosamund to enquire.

"Perfectly," her Ladyship assured her, "Absolutely fine."

Despite the frantic air of the servants' quarters that morning, Mrs Hughes had still found time to remind her that while she was sitting with the three ladies she must not speak unless she was asked a question, and was certainly not to comment on anything out of the ordinary that any of them might do. Gwen supposed that included lying through their teeth, which she had the oddest feeling Lady Grantham was doing at that moment; so she kept quiet. The audience fell silent as the curtain went up. Gwen could see a muscle clench in her Ladyship's jaw.

…**...**

"Old Carson's loving this," Thomas remarked, an even more exaggerated smirk than they were used to on his face.

"Why?" O'Brien clambered onto a crate, hoping to get a better look at what was going on on the stage, "Which bit're they up to?"

All her new vantage point afforded her was a brief glimpse of the butler clutching Mrs Hughes' wrists, before the housekeeper broke free, apparently charged with a fearsome rage. Nothing new there, she thought to herself.

Thomas sniggered.

"Act 1 Scene 7," he informed her, "Where Hughsie takes it upon herself to act like a right tart for all the village to see."

It occurred to Miss O'Brien, not being involved at all in that part of the play, that she had never seen it rehearsed. Her curiosity spiked, she craned her neck a little further trying to get a view of the action on stage- only to make the angle at which she stood even more precarious.

"O'Brien," came Mrs Crawley's voice in an irate hiss, "Get down off that crate at once! You'll go through the floor if you're not careful. Thomas, get ready! You're on next." 

"Keep your wig on," he replied under his breath, shrugging his cloak on straight.

Smarting a little herself at the insinuations that had just been made about her weight, O'Brien got down none too carefully, thinking that Mrs Crawley's harshness with them was probably due to her hearing Thomas' remark about the butler and the housekeeper.

…**...**

When Mrs Hughes left the stage after Act 3 Scene 2, her last scene before the Interval, she wore a grin on her face, nearly bouncing from the wings to the backstage area; all nervousness apparently gone.

"You were marvellous!" Sybil whispered to her.

Something on the housekeeper's face told her that she knew she had been. Mr Carson, in a similarly energetic state- though not grinning as widely- sat down heavily beside Sybil.

"Well that's all of us done for the moment," he remarked, "Only Thomas to be killed off, then the Interval."

Said like that, the murder of Banquo sounded quite an inviting prospect. Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, they heard an almighty scuffling on stage and William charged into the wings, apparently fleeing from the murderers- Daisy, Mrs Patmore and Mrs Bird brandishing their choice of kitchen implements.

"And there he goes," Carson finished, "And... curtain down."

Right on cue there was a burst of enthusiastic applause from the audience. The ensemble seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as Thomas- looking worse for wear- and the three murders joined them backstage.

"Twenty minutes until curtain up," William announced, while he was playing Fleance his role of keeping the whole company in time apparently did not cease.

"Time for a fag," Thomas announced, "Miss O'Brien?" 

"Oh no, you're not!" came a call from the other side of the room, "I've got nineteen and a half minutes to turn you into a convincing ghost, young man; you are not going anywhere!"

Mrs Crawley emerged- half-transformed into a Gentlewoman, but still wearing her costume making apron. In her hands she held a large dish of rather suspicious white powder. The gentle tick of having a time limit in which to accomplish this particular task seemed to have given her rather a mad glint in her eye, and increased her resolve to get the job done properly.

"Anyone in costume out of the way," she instructed, "Except, I might need some help with the blood."

Thomas, having looked distinctly put out a moment ago at the cancellation of his cigarette break, now looked rather sheepish. He was staring at the white substance in the bowl with apprehension.

"Your make-up," she informed him shortly, "Mary dear, put on that white sheet over your dress and give me a hand," she instructed, "Sit down," she bade Thomas.

He obeyed, now visibly scared. Charles and Elsie exchanged a glance of mixed amusement and admiration; perhaps they ought to enlist Mrs Crawley to help keep the staff in order.

"Now," Mrs Crawley announced to the small crowd of onlookers who had gathered, each of whom were trying to inspect this "make-up", "I didn't get to do this at the dress rehearsal..."

Edith gave a nervous laugh.

"Didn't you think it would be a good idea to try it out first?" she asked.

"We wanted to pool our resources," Sybil informed her sister smartly from beside Elsie, speaking up on Mrs Crawley's behalf, "We didn't want to waste anything in case we didn't have enough for the performance. Carry on, Mrs C."

"Right," Mrs Crawley stirred herself, "There seems to me to be and obvious way to do this..."

And with that she promptly tipped the entire contents of the bowl over Thomas' head in a kind of localised snow storm. Sybil heard O'Brien snort in delight and was sorely pressed not to do the same. Once he had recovered from the shock, Thomas looked furious.

"What are you doing woman?" he wanted to know, leaping from the chair, causing the deposits of the white mixture to spread even further over him until they coated him head to foot, "What the devil is this?" he asked in disgust.

"Quiet man," Branson told him irritably, "They'll all hear you out there!"

"One part flour to two parts face powder," Mrs Crawley informed him, smoothing the mixture on his face to try and achieve an even coating, "And sit down, I'm not finished. Mary, could you bring me the dye please?" 

"You were good," Elsie heard Lady Sybil say to the chauffeur as he came to stand beside them. True, she reflected, the boy had made a worrying proficient drunken porter.

"Thank you, m'Lady," she heard him reply, sensing that he was grinning a little, "Did you speak to Mr Johnson?"

"Mr Johnson?" Elsie questioned, pouncing on this surprising question with relish. What business on earth could Lady Sybil and Branson have with the man looked after the local park and who kept boats on the village pond? She should rephrase that; what _sensible _business could they have?

Predictably, Lady Sybil flashed her a rather sheepish smile.

"We were thinking of going to the pond when we're finished here. All of us. For a bit of a breather."

Elsie shook her head in disbelief.

"You will be the death of me, Sybil Crawley."

"Mrs Crawley said we could," the girl replied, a childish twang to her voice; casting aside the fact that both her mother and her grandmother would probably say they couldn't.

"Did she now?" Elsie was quickly coming to think that this production had rather unhinged Mrs Crawley.

She turned to go and question Isobel as to whether this was true, but something else caught her attention. Lady Mary had reappeared with a bowl of red dye, which she passed to Mrs Crawley.

"Pass me a paintbrush, would you, Mrs Hughes?"

Curious as to what on earth would happen next, Elsie did as she was bidden. Dipping the brush in the dye, Mrs Crawley painted what looked like a deep gash across Thomas' very white throat; but there was still a vast quantity of dye in the bowl when that was done. Mrs Crawley picked up the bowl and held it at Thomas' throat.

"Say "When"," she instructed him.

"When," he told her, too early.

She ignored him and poured the bowl's contents down over his throat and whitened costume. The result was a thoroughly convincing blood-stained ghost that looked vaguely like Thomas.

"Five minutes!" William called.

They had not realised that they had spent most of the interval watching this spectacle, but speaking for herself, Elsie couldn't deny that she'd enjoyed it.

"Hello, everybody!"

Oh, heavens, her Ladyship was back!

"You are all doing marvellously; they just love it! Good gracious," she had evidently spotted Thomas, "The ghost turned out well, Isobel."

There was a great deal of bustling about as people moved around looking for their props, getting back into their places to resume at Act 3 Scene 4.

"Carson," her Ladyship cornered Charles as he was about to move back onto stage, "I must say, you're doing splendidly."

"Thank you, your Ladyship."

Elsie could tell he was blushing furiously. She cleared her throat loudly. Her Ladyship mistook the cough as being aimed at her.

"And you too, Mrs Hughes, absolutely wonderfully."

"Three minutes, your Ladyship," William reminded her.

"Oh gracious, I'd better get back!"

…**...**

"Sybil, get out of the way! You'll make me miss my cue!"

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, diving out of the way as Mrs Crawley- now in full costume as the Gentlewoman- gracefully took to the stage for her one and only appearance. Sybil had in fact been loitering in the wings, determined to see this scene done, if any.

She waited in something like trepidation- which was silly, it wasn't as if she hadn't seen it rehearsed- while Dr Clarkson and Mrs Crawley stood furtively conferring. Then, there she was: Mrs Hughes in a nightdress, hair at stray ends, visibly shaking; the perfect mad Scotswoman that O'Brien had recommended. Though she could not see beyond the front row of the audience- where Gwen was watching, agog- she sensed a chill ripple through the rows. There was deadly silence. At the other side of the stage she could see Mary and Matthew doing exactly the same as she was; standing in the wings, transfixed. The effect was quite startling, an rather eerie.

This was Mrs Hughes' final scene, and by the look of it she was really giving it some go. She sank- apparently in a sleep-walking haze- to her knees, wringing her hands desperately, what looked like real tears pouring down her cheeks. Though she had done this about thirty times before, she still managed to capture a genuine- and rather infectious- expression of fear.

And when it was over, though it was only the end of a scene as opposed to an entire act, the audience burst into hearty applause. Mrs Hughes, backstage by that point, looked rather bewildered to Sybil.

…**...**

Gwen couldn't deny that she liked the curtain call, partly because it had been funny to watch the cast, having managed to perform an entire play with relatively few mishaps, struggle to get it right in rehearsals. This time, however, they managed it. First Mr Crawley's friends, Molesley, Tom, William, Dr Clarkson, Mrs Crawley, Daisy, Mrs Bird and Mrs Patmore came forward, then Miss O'Brien who- did Gwen's eyes deceive her?- looked to be quite enjoying herself along with Lady Mary, Edith and Sybil. Then came his Lordship, who had died so long ago Gwen was surprised to see him, Thomas, Anna and Mr Bates. Then, clutching each other's hands and trying to restrain their smiles, came Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson to raucous cheering, that Gwen expected to see Lady Violet frown at; but found that the Dowager Countess was joining in.

**One more chapter to go: "The After-Show Party."/ "Going Wild." Please review if you have the time.**


	9. Chapter 9

"**The After-Show Party."/ "Going Wild."**

It certainly wasn't usual behaviour for members of the ruling classes to really make friends with their servants; not properly anyway. On the surface it might seem as if they did, but in actual fact it was very rare indeed. But then, Charles reflected, Downton seemed to be making a point of displaying unconventional behaviour at the minute. He guessed that such an occurrence as the one he witnessed then, in the corridor behind the backstage area, had never been seen in any of England's major houses. Hearing the door leading onto the corridor open he was quick to withdraw his arm from around Elsie's shoulder, yet still only did so in time to avoid having it wrenched out of the socket by Mrs Crawley, who had come bounding towards them and hugged Elsie with all her might- evidently still over-excited from coming off the from the curtain call. Elsie for her part reacted rather calmly to being pounced upon, he thought. Whereas one time Charles would have found Isobel Crawley's behaviour unrefined and vulgar, he found himself smiling in spite of himself; she and Elsie he knew had grown fond of each other throughout the rehearsal period.

"Oh, Mrs Hughes," Mrs Crawley finally got round to explaining herself, "You were marvellous! Absolutely wonderful!"

Elsie, looking a little as if she'd been hit over the head with something solid, patted Mrs Crawley on the back, throwing rather a bewildered glance at Charles.

"She's right." As Isobel let go of Elsie, she was able to see Lady Sybil and Mr Branson hovering in the corridor doorway, "Well done, Mrs Hughes, you were wonderful, simply enchanting, I-..." 

"Don't think that's going to get you any where with me," she warned the girl, snapping into housekeeper mode. Elsie fixed her with a shrewd stare. She had not quite forgotten what she'd overheard- their plotting- during the interval.

"Oh please, Mrs Hughes, let us," Sybil implored, "Mr Johnson said we could have the run of the place. I think you rather impressed him."

"I don't dispute that he might consent to it," Elsie conceded- noticing that Lady Sybil had not quite given up on flattering her-, "It's what everyone in the village will think- not to mention your parents- if Mr Carson and I let you all go running wild!"

"Come with us," Lady Sybil offered, then added rather daringly, "Go wild yourselves."

Elsie opened her mouth, staring in disbelief at Mrs Crawley. However, her own incredulity was not returned.

"It couldn't do much harm, Elsie," Mrs Crawley supplied, using the housekeeper's Christian name, attempting to soften her, "I think we could all do with letting our hair down a bit."

Good heavens, you'd have thought the fact that she was still dressed as Lady Macbeth might make this lot just a little bit frightened of her; but no! She turned to Charles, hoping that at least he might give her some support.

"I don't suppose... I mean, if we were there to supervise, Elsie..."

She looked at him, exasperated. She had a feeling that he wanted the chance to go mad just as much as the rest of them did, though he would never dream of admitting it!

"But what will her Ladyship...-"

"Oh you can stay with my mother, Mrs Hughes. In fact she's holding a small celebration for friends of the family who are here today. I'm sure they'd all be thrilled to meet you, and congratulate you themselves."

Lady Sybil wore a fiendish smile, and not without a good reason. She knew the housekeeper would loathe earnest flattery being flung at her from all directions: she simply wouldn't know how to take it. A muscle was clenched in her jaw.

"Oh, go on then."

…**...**

Lady Sybil had assembled rather a pleasant little group, Elsie had to admit that. Anna, Gwen, Mr Bates, William, Daisy, Lady Edith and all three of Mr Crawley's friends- whose names she got mixed up- met them at the back door and followed as Mr Branson and Lady Sybil lead the way. They took the short cut, the pond was at the edge of the village and this way they wouldn't need to go any where near the centre. Under the pretence of helping her over the uneven ground, Charles reached out and took her hand as they walked. Aside from Mrs Crawley- with whom Elsie exchanged an understanding smile- no one seemed to notice; so high were spirits all round. With much whooping and oddly well executed chants of "Double, double, toil and trouble" the merry rabble proceed through the long grasses and unkempt hedgerows until they reached the pond. The excitement was rather infectious, and Elsie began to understand how it was that she had been drawn into this madness.

There was some commotion as the menfolk- attempting chivalry- set about preparing the boats. The unintended effect of this was that one particular vessel was let go too soon and scooted away from the rest of the fleet. Charles was appalled; Mr Johnson had only allowed them this excursion in the good faith that all of his boats would be properly treated. Fortunately- Elsie supposed- taking a great running leap, Mr Branson managed to find himself in that particular boat before it drifted too far. Assembled on dry land the rest of them with laughter, Lady Sybil in particular.

"Tom!" she called merrily, "Tom! Come back and get me!"

The poor lad did genuinely seem to try to do as he was bidden, but by the time he had gained control of the oars, he was well into the middle of the pond. Lady Sybil didn't seem to mind too much, and got into a boat with Daisy and William cheerfully enough.

"I think I'll stay at the side and watch," Elsie heard Mr Bates tell Anna, as she herself was tugged into a boat by Mrs Crawley, "Go on with Gwen and Mr Carson."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes." Elsie clearly heard a note of amusement in the valet's voice; at the other side of the pond Mr Branson appeared to be rowing around in circles.

All in all, Elsie thought, she and Isobel- as she insisted she was to call her from now on- didn't do too badly, having never found themselves in such a boat before. They didn't capsize or crash at any rate, and it was in good spirits that they crashed into the side of the boat where Anna and Gwen had insisted upon rowing, while Charles entreated them to be careful.

"Edith!" she heard Lady Sybil call to her older sister, "You're only supposed to have three in each boat!"

Lady Edith had somehow managed to negotiate her way into a boat with all three of the young men. She now realised that Mr Branson had been rowing in circles for a reason; Mr Crawley's friends had been chasing him in their boat and he trying to get away from them. Beside her Isobel roared with laughter.

"I wish Matthew was here to see this," she remarked.

"Didn't he want to come down with us?" Elsie asked.

"No," Isobel gave her a knowing smile, "Mary invited him to accompany her to Cora's party."

"Oh."

"Edith!" Sybil was still calling- apparently letting none of this rule breaking pass, most unusually-, "Get into Tom's boat. Go on, or you'll all sink!"

In between side splitting heaves of laughter it occurred to Elsie that she was still dressed as Lady Macbeth. A little distance from them, Mr Branson had lined his boat up alongside Edith's so she could step across. Completely forgetting that she too was in a precariously balanced rowing boat, she stood up to get a better look.

"Careful!" Isobel exclaimed, grabbing the oars and almost knocking her back down to steady them.

And by the time she looked up again, everyone else's mirth had apparently tripled. Wondering what on earth she had missed she looked around frantically, just in time to hear a tremendous splash. The boat steered by the young men was drifting gracefully away amid torrents of laughter. Lady Edith was sitting, looking mortified, alone in Mr Branson's boat, apparently soaking. As for Mr Branson, he was in the pond. Having attempted to assist a very jumpy Lady Edith between the two boats, she had panicked and- thinking she would fall- pushed against him, causing him to lose his balance and go flying into the pond. Across the water from them Elsie saw Lady Sybil, grabbing onto Daisy's arm for support; laughing herself daft.

…**...**

"So you all had a good time this afternoon?" her Ladyship asked Elsie that evening, "Sybil tells me you all went down to the village pond."

Elsie considered her response carefully. In fact, she needn't even need to lie to avoid telling her Ladyship what had really happened.

"Yes, my Lady, we had a marvellous time," she informed her.

Lady Grantham smiled, picking up her drink and moving off to where Mrs Patmore was giving a detailed account of how she had murdered Thomas during Act 3. She could not help but breathe a sigh of relief, picking up her own glass and taking a hearty drink. As the bachelors' corridor had yet to be turned back to its proper state, the family had decided to hold a party for the cast there- family and staff. The cubicle curtains had been taken down and copious supplies of food and drink had been prepared beforehand so everyone was helping themselves. She perched herself on the edge of the table that had been in her dressing room, looking around the room, absolutely exhausted but very pleased all the same.

"Mrs Hughes?" she turned her head to see Lady Sybil standing beside her, "How alike do you think Gwen and Christopher look?"

What a question, she thought; but looked anyway. At the other side of the room Gwen was talking to one of Mr Crawley's friends. Though she would normally have stormed across and given the girl an errand to do- keep her out of trouble- she thought she could make an exception this once. Now that she thought about it, there was rather a resemblance between the two of them; both with rather fiery hair, and their faces a similar shape. She eyed Lady Sybil suspiciously.

"Why?"

"I'm looking for some twins," she was informed, "I'm thinking of _Twelfth Night_ in time for Twelfth Night. What do you think?"

"You want all of this chaos _again_?" Elsie asked incredulously, "It'll take me another twenty years to recover from this lot!"

"Oh don't worry," Lady Sybil informed her casually, "There aren't any Scottish people in this one, you're quite safe."

Elsie was about to retort that she might not be limited to playing only Scottish roles- Lady Sybil shouldn't underestimate her- when Charles and Isobel approached them, apparently sharing a joke amongst themselves.

"What are you two up to?" Isobel called, helping herself to a piece of cake, "You have that look. Plotting."

Elsie snorted.

"That's her," she indicated to Sybil, "I wash my hands of it. She's planning all of this madness again come December time!"

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Isobel wanted to know, "I for one have had a splendid time. Oh for heaven's sakes man!" much to Elsie's surprise she rounded on Charles who was perched beside her- a measured distance apart, as they were used to-, "You may as well put your arm around her! We both know."

Elsie sat there a little stunned, not least because Isobel had worked up the nerve to say that to them. There was a moments pause and then she felt Charles' arm drape gently around her shoulder. They sat there, the four of them- two servants, an aristocrat and an upper-middle class mother- for a little while watching their friends, employers, colleagues, family mixing cheerfully in the room before them.

"You know what this is?" Sybil reflected after a while, "This is what Tom calls democracy."

**The End.**

**That's not all there is, though. If you'd like, I'm more than willing to write a sequel and have them put on _Twelfth Night _like Sybil suggested; I have cast it and have a few plans ready. I hope you've all enjoyed this, it's been terrifically fun to write. Please review if you have the time.**


End file.
